


Cicatrix

by FrostyPineapple



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Aftermath, Angst, Gen, Grief, Literally And Figuratively, PTSD, Sad, Scarred, Trauma, a bit of magical realism, after the war, death cw, mentions of blood cw, minor character death mentions, physical scarring cw, this is really sad guys im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 03:32:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11638062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostyPineapple/pseuds/FrostyPineapple
Summary: When Hawkmoth was defeated, Ladybug's cure fixed the broken bridges and burning buildings. But the ground was still tinted red, and the scars in Paris's heart ran deeper than the surface.





	Cicatrix

 

Hawkmoth might’ve been defeated, but the fight–no, the war–had been traumatic for the entirety of Paris. The streets after the final battle were quiet. There was no celebration, no relief. Just an atmosphere of mourning.

 Marinette wandered the empty streets all by herself. She had long ago stopped wearing red and pink. She associated too many memories, too much pain, with those blasted colors.

Instead, she trudged through the drifting snow in a white and blue striped jacket, a far cry from the red and black spots she had had on hours ago.

An empty pocketbook hung by her side.

She had put absolutely nothing in it; sort of in honor of what–or rather, who–would’ve normally resided in the swinging bag.

The crunch of the fresh snow under her tall black boots was the only sound that echoed through the quiet night.

Nobody had been surprised really, that Paris’s resident super villain would use akumas as his weapon in the end. But she would’ve bet she wasn’t the only one who was shocked at the fact that he had called on every single akuma he had ever created in order to fight his last battle.

Every.

Single.

One.

And in the six years since the first one, there had been a lot of akumas. Marinette knew exactly how many akumas: three hundred and seventeen. She had never forgotten a single one.

A burning smell still lingered in the heavy air; despite the miraculous cure having fixed everything that had been physically damaged.

But the cure couldn’t bring back the innocence of the people of Paris. It couldn’t fix what had been damaged in their hearts and minds. 

She could still remember, as the white and pink light of her cure flew around the air, the utter _pain_ on the faces of everyone who had accepted help from a not-so-innocent butterfly.

It seemed Hawkmoth hadn’t been so gentle to his victims the second time around.

Three hundred and seventeen butterflies. 

Three hundred and seventeen victims she had had to fight.

Of course, Chat Noir had been there, for what was a Lady without her Knight?

But he had been affected a lot worse than she had. Tikki had been able to hold her transformation long enough for a multitude of Lucky Charms throughout the day, pumping luck and creation till they thrummed through the very veins of Ladybug. In the end, Tikki severed their treasured connection in order to put the very last bit of what she had into taking down their adversary once and for all.

Chat Noir’s kwami must’ve done the same. Chat had used Cataclysm several times without detransforming, so his kwami must’ve pushed all his magic into his holder too.

But Chat Noir was the chaos and destruction to her order and creation, and having that thrum through your veins must’ve felt like the steady beat of death creeping onto your door.

In the end, the utter exhaustion of the battle, of the three hundred and seventeen battles they were fighting instantaneously, won.

Her kitty had collapsed on a rooftop, green light flashing away to reveal Adrien Agreste.

His finger was ring-less.

For a second, Marinette had paused, taken aback by the appearance of her old childhood crush. God, she hadn’t seen him in ages. He looked older now, more broken, even in that passed-out state.

But of course, she knew that she also looked older and more broken now.

Marinette had thanked whatever higher deity existed in this hell of a reality for keeping her partner breathing, even if his breaths were shallow and inconsistent.

She had dropped him off at a hospital, where the exhausted nurses and doctors rushed around as what seemed like half of the population of Paris was shuffled in. Hopefully her kitty would be all right. Then she returned to the battle with all the rage and fire of someone who had just lost a loved one.

She hadn’t checked on him yet. After the battle had been won, after she had collapsed onto the floor of an abandoned apartment she had found three months earlier (a perfect transformation hideout), after she had realized that the pink sparkles that swept around her had not only left her in her civilian clothes but also without the black studs she kept in her ears, she had sat and cried.

Now, mere hours after the explosion of white butterflies that had signaled the end of the villain, she was wandering Paris, with no destination in mind.

The snow had started right after his defeat, as if the whiteness and purity of it would cleanse the city more than her cure had. It swirled around her, taunting her, mocking the loss of her innocence.

 

The white of the snow and the white of the butterflies mixed together in the air like a silent, yet somber, symphony.

 

There had been one more thing her cure couldn’t bring back. 

As she crunched along the streets, there were still smudges of pink and red that the falling snow had yet to completely cover.

 

She imagined no one in Paris would ever look at butterflies the same.

 

* * *

 

That night, Marinette spent hours awake in her little apartment.

She sewed blankets, knitted scarves, baked treats, and crafted bracelets. Some of Tikki’s luck must’ve lingered, as she had no idea what miracle had allowed her to finish it all. She wouldn’t be surprised if that was the last miracle, the last bit of good luck she had left.

She never felt a hint of sleepiness.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A day later, she had a basket of warm pastries in one hand, and a huge bag in the other. A black knit hat settled around her earring-less ears to keep them warm. 

Her first stop was her parent’s patisserie. They were closed for the day, like every other business in Paris, but Marinette used her spare key to enter the building.

Her father had once been akumatised.

She had had to fight him for a second time the day before.

The bakery was empty; the lights were off and the shelves were devoid of any sweet treats.

She found them in the living room. Her mother had draped her petite body over her father, who was hunched up on the couch staring at his shaking hands.

Those hands had tried to choke her yesterday.

 

No, not those hands. The hands of DuPain Inflictor had not been the hands of her father.

She set down her wares and hugged her parents. Silent tears slid down all their faces.

 

From his stutters and guilty mumbles, Marinette learned that they could remember every single detail of those hours spent under Hawkmoth’s control. Every single gruesome act that they had committed in the twenty-four hours of mayhem caused by Hawkmoth’s final attack. 

As she took her father’s large hands in her own, her small fingers traced something bumpy underneath. Turning them over, she found a small white scar on his right hand.

 

A small white butterfly.

A mottled line lay within the border, looking oddly like a lightning bolt.

He had jumped when her finger began tracing the outline of the scar, and Marinette simply allowed him to rest his face into her shoulder and sob.

 

His hands were still shaking.

 

* * *

 

  

She had left her parent’s with a heavy heart, but she was a girl on a mission. 

Her next stop was an apartment halfway across the city from the bakery. It made her route slightly inconvenient, but she was determined to visit her best friend before anyone else.

When she knocked on the door, it pushed in without a complaint.

The lights were off in the single bedroom apartment. In fact, none of the electronics seemed to be on. Marinette immediately noticed how cold it was.

 

Alya must’ve turned the heat off.

 

A sobbing noise came from the bedroom, echoing through the darkness. 

“Al?”

A series of hiccups could be heard, followed by a shuffling sound. The door popped open. “Mari? Is that you?”

Alya looked awful. Her red hair was in disarray, and she was wearing her glasses, reminiscent of her teenage years before she had started wearing contacts. She was still in pajamas.

Marinette wondered if she had been in those same pajamas before she had turned.

A hacking cough disturbed her wondering. Marinette quickly pulled out a blanket from the huge bag. It was soft and fluffy and light blue. She wrapped it around her shivering best friend and gently pushed her into the bedroom.

 

If she had thought Alya looked bad, her room was a hell of a lot worse.

 

A laptop lay dented on the floor, and glass shards littered the ground in front of the broken TV. The window was open to let light in, and snow swirled through it. Every single electric socket was taped up. 

Guiding Alya to the rumpled bed, Marinette lifted a bag of pastries out and wandered into the kitchen. She made to turn the electric kettle on, about to plug in the cord when Alya shrieked, and bolted out of her bedroom.

The redhead ripped the cord from her hand.

“No. Nothing that turns on. No electronics. Nothing that powers up. Please Mari. Please.”

Ah. That explained why the heat was off.

Alya’s eyes were tearing up.

 

“I can’t take it. I never want to hold a phone or electronic device ever again.”

 

Lady Wifi had been one of the most powerful reborn akumas she had had to face.

 

From what she could guess, the older the akumas were, the more powerful they had become in their second coming. It had been difficult, knowing that so many of her old classmates and friends had been her greatest adversaries.

Marinette pulled the shivering girl into a hug. “Okay, no electronics. I’ll put an old kettle onto the gas stove, is that okay? And we can have some hot chocolate. Go and close that window, you’ll catch hypothermia.”

Later, Marinette sat behind her friend, gently brushing out the tangles of red and brown as Alya nursed a cup of Marinette’s signature hot chocolate. As she drew her fingers through the mess of hair, Marinette’s fingers brushed a bump on the base of her neck.

Alya jumped, nearly spilling the drink onto the rumpled sheets of her bed.

 

Marinette held the hair off to one side, and stared at the white outline of a butterfly that rested innocently on the base of Alya’s neck. It was similar to the one that had been found on her father’s hand.

 

“There are four more.” Alya’s voice was raspy, damaged by the hours of crying and yelling.

 

Alya lifted up her shirt, and Marinette found another butterfly on the smooth skin of her stomach. An upside-down power sign rested inside. Unlike the one on her neck, this one looked red and angry around the edges of the white scar. Like it was glowing with power and waiting to be turned on.

 

Slipping off the rest of the pajama shirt, Marinette stared in horror at the large butterfly that rested on her best friend’s chest.

 

It was black.

 

A burnt looked wifi symbol glared from within.

Sniffling, Alya’s tears slid down her face and onto the scar, the ridges of the raised skin catching some of them.

Finally, Alya twisted her back. Two miniscule white butterflies danced on the base of her spine.

 

“My father has one on his hand.”

 

Alya raised an eyebrow. “How many–many–I,” she choked, and Marinette tucked some stray strands behind her ears. “Lives, Mari. I–I think they’re the lives.”

A trembling tan finger traced the black of the largest butterfly. And even though Alya winced as she traced her own scar, she didn’t stop.

“The butterflies?”

Alya never answered the question. Instead, she collapsed back onto the sheets. Marinette caught the cup of chocolate just in time. The redhead had succumbed to her exhaustion, though the pain in her face didn’t lessen at all. 

Marinette hated to leave her in this state, but knew that Alya wasn’t the only one. Drawing up the covers, she set the unfinished mug onto the nightstand. Next to it, she placed a pre-written note.

  

* * *

 

 

People all dealt with grief differently. Nino greeted her cheerfully, pulling her into the flat that he shared with Adrien.

Marinette’s heart twinged for a moment at that thought.

At first glance, Nino seemed perfectly all right. But Marinette had known the boy since childhood.

There was a slouch in his shoulders, a nervous tick in his fingers. Those hazel eyes darted from corner to corner, never really looking straight at her.

But she could tell that he didn’t want to talk about it. So she didn’t. Instead, the chatted about the cold weather, about politics, about some new movie, about why chinchillas were the best pet to have, about the best way to take your coffee. About anything but those blasted bubbles.

 

She especially never brought up the white and black scar that peeked out of his sleeve when he raised his arm a bit. The odd coloring stood out on his tan wrist.

 

Later, as Marinette made to leave, she handed Nino his bag of pastries without a word. Inside, she had made sure to give him extra chocolaty treats. Nino raised his eyebrow. She dug through the other bag for a minute, before pulling out a green scarf. There were golden music notes embroidered into it.

 

For warmth, she said.

 

 _For you_ , her eyes said, _I hope you don’t forget I’m here._

 

Thanks, he said.

 

 _I’m still in pain,_ his eyes said, _but thanks anyway._

 

She pulled him into a hug, knowing that words wouldn’t have been enough. Words had never been Nino’s forte anyway. He had always preferred music and moving pictures to complicated and temperamental words.

She handed him the envelope filled with words anyway. It had been the best way for her to explain.

As Marinette let the door close behind her, she swore she heard a muffled sob through the thick wood.

  

* * *

 

Marinette wasn’t positive if the gilded door would open for her. But she had to try. Cautiously she ran the doorbell.

Minutes passed.

She was about to turn back into the falling snowstorm, when she heard the lock snap.

 

A creak.

 

Big blue eyes were the first things she saw. Big blue eyes framed by runny mascara and smudged makeup.

"What do you want?" The voice of her childhood nemesis nearly unrecognizable. It was thicker and raspier than Marinette had ever heard it.

Marinette simply held up a bag.

The door swung open.

Chloé stood shivering, blond hair wavy and crimped and not at all in its usual perfect condition. She was dressed in a fluffy bathrobe that somehow seemed ragged despite its luxurious texture.

Marinette put her bags down and took her snow boots off. The cold marble of the floor stung her frozen feet, but she didn’t care.

Chloé didn’t say a single word as she led her into a comfortable living room, with plush white couches and golden decorations.

Marinette settled across from the queen bee of Paris.

“Do you have a scar too?”

Chloé gave her an odd look. But she nodded.

“Is it white or black?”

“Why?”

“I’ve found that they all look different.”

“So you’ve visited some of the others then.”

 

 _Others_. The word was a disguise for _akumas_.

 

“Alya has five.”

Chloe’s eyes widened.

“Césaire really did a number then didn’t she?”

 

Chloé shrugged off the bathrobe, completely unashamed of being naked in front of Marinette. A dark black butterfly rested above her heart with an angry red dot in the middle.

She twisted around, and on her back, in the same exact location above her heart, there was bright red butterfly scar with a shriveled black dot inside.

Ah. Inverted colors. _Antibug._

Chloé rasped, “He didn’t say much to us this time. It was like I was watching myself move, but couldn’t do anything about it. He controlled everything, not just my emotions and perceptions. I mean, he didn’t even bother trying to persuade us. He had enough power to make us do what he wanted."

Sighing, the blond wrapped her bathrobe back around herself. “But, in the end, he could tell he was losing. And then, all I could feel was this burning sensation above my heart. Ladybug had already caught my butterfly, but I didn’t change back right away. I doubt she noticed though, there was an awful lot for her to do.” Chloé eyed her narrowly.

 

A man came and set some tea in front of the two of them.

 

“I think he needed energy. Hawkmoth, I mean. And I think he was trying to get that from us. Even though the connection had been severed, he still had a small link to me, like a string that pulled me in his direction. The more I resisted, the more it burned.” She daintily picked up the gold and white cup decorated with gilded bees. 

Looking away, Chloé sipped at her tea.

“He had prepared for it. The eventual draining of his _pawns_.” She spat out the words.

“You would think the man would’ve had more class.”

Another sip. Marinette, feeling slightly more relaxed, picked up the pink and white cup, decorated with flowers. The warmth burnt her tongue. 

“I’m sure you understand by now, that we remember everything. I remember hacking someone on the street to pieces. I think I’ve just managed to wash all the blood from my hair.”

 

The brutal honesty nearly made Marinette choke on her tea.

 

“I felt it. The minute the life drained out of her eyes, I think it seeped into me–No–it seeped into the butterfly in me. After I was purified, those bundles of energy in me were still there. That’s when he started what I guess had been his Plan B. He drained their lives, from _me._ ” Chloé’s eyes were filled with anger.

She held up two fingers. “I took two lives. I’ve got two scars.”

 

 _Lives, I–I think they’re the lives._ That’s what Alya had said to her. Marinette felt a bit sick. It wasn’t their fault, but now they would have to live with the guilt and pain for the rest of their lives. It wasn’t fair.

 

None of it was. 

And she hadn't done enough to stop it. 

 

Chloé must’ve misread her look of disgust. “I know.” She paused for a minute. “We’re monsters.”

“No, it’s not that.”

Chloé tilted her head. “Then what is it?”

Marinette avoided the question, answering with her own query. “Why are you telling me this?”

 

“I suppose I owe you my life.”

 

Marinette rocked back into the couch, falling into its squishy cushions in surprise. “Excuse me?" 

“I won’t tell. Though I suppose it matters very little now.”

“Oh.” That was all Marinette could manage.

“Why are you here?” Chloé finally asked.

The tea was strong and hot and and even though its heat burned, she was grateful for the warmth. “I’m not sure.”

"Oh.” That was all Chloé said back.

They sat in silence, sipping their tea. Somehow, Chloé still managed to look regal while looking bedraggled. Her posture remained perfect, her eyes were still sharp. 

Marinette felt small in her winter jacket and black knit hat. 

As she stood up to leave, Marinette proffered her two gifts. “For you.”

Chloé eyed the bag of pastries and the small braided bracelet. “I’m sorry that I was such a bully in school.” _I’m sorry that I tried to kill you a day ago_.

 

“I’m sorry too.” _I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, all of you, in time._

 

“Don’t beat yourself up about it, Bug.”

There it was.

Chloé showed her to the door, clutching possessively at the things Marinette had made with warmth, luck, and apologies. “I’m far more resilient than I look.”

The blond then looked at her for a long moment. “Don’t be a stranger Marinette.”

With a smile, she left her former nemesis. She wasn't worried about the blond girl. The budding socialite was made like the diamonds she loved and wore.

Indestructible.

 

* * *

 

  

The storm was bigger now, and since the entirety of the city had shut down, the unplowed streets were covered in snow deep enough to reach her calves.

She pulled her knit cap lower onto her head. She was well aware that the previously blinding light of the white snow was dimming, indicating the passing of time.

It was okay though, she wasn’t feeling particularly tired tonight.

So she crunched through the snow, enjoying the satisfaction of being the first to mar the perfect, smooth surface. Her footsteps trailed through its face like scars. 

 

 

Juleka didn’t say anything as she opened the door for Marinette. 

The black-garbed woman didn’t say anything at all.

While Juleka had always been careful in the distribution of her words, she had always voiced something. Even if one couldn’t really understood what it was that she had voiced.

But today, they just sat there.

Marinette crossed her legs in the single armchair across from the cream sofa, where Juleka sat on the left. An indentation could be seen on the right side.

 

She asked if she had a scar.

 

Juleka shook her head.

 

In a way, Marinette was slightly relieved that Juleka had no scar. But then, as she looked around the two-bedroom flat, decorated with pinks and creams, she felt something heavier sink in. She stared at the framed picture across from her seat. 

“I’m sorry.” Marinette wasn’t sure if she could ever say it enough times.

Juleka offered a weak smile.

“I brought some of her favorites.” She lifted up the bag that had been labeled  _the Couffaines._

The woman across from her hesitantly took the bag.

“I also brought this. She gave it to me years ago when we were kids... I thought you should have it.”

Marinette held up a porcelain pin. It was delicately made, and the swirls shaped it into a rose.

Juleka stared at her for a moment, tears streaming down her face.

Finally, she wrapped her hands around the pin, and brought it to her heart.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Marinette barely heard it, it was so quiet. 

The two of them sat like that. One on a chair, one on one end of a couch, as if they were waiting for a third person to come and complete the triangle.

Waiting for a blond-haired, blue-eyed, excitable little woman. But they would have to wait forever.

She supposed some scars were unseen.

 

* * *

  

Sabrina wasn’t at home. From the looks of it, she hadn’t been home in awhile. Maybe she was on vacation. Marinette certainly didn’t remember seeing her during the battle.

She supposed that was the point though. It was hard to remember someone you couldn’t _see_.

Instead, Marinette visited Sabrina’s childhood home. Roger Raincromprix greeted her politely.She handed him a bag, an envelope, and her apologies. In her other hand was a gift-wrapped headband for his daughter.  

He declined, saying that Sabrina had cut off communication and moved to London. He hadn’t talked to her in a year.

Oh.

“Well, Monsieur, I hope you can take these for yourself then. I’m truly sorry.” She held up the pastries.

“Whatever are you apologizing for?”

She held out the envelope as she eyed the back butterfly that rested on the side of his neck. “Your pain."

  

* * *

 

Crunch.

 

Crunch.

 

The snow was getting higher.

 

Flakes rested on her cheekbones and eyelashes as she stood silently in the cemetery.

She rested a woven circle of fake flowers and a delicate heart pin onto the tombstone.

 

He had died in a freak car crash a year ago. She was almost thankful that he didn't have to see the utter disaster Paris had become. 

However, she still felt responsible. For something.

She wasn’t sure what.

“I made a bet a couple days ago. I bet myself that I would do anything I had to do in order to save Paris.” She brushed the snow off the engraved name.

“I’m afraid I failed you, Kim. I don’t think I won that bet at all.”

 

* * *

 

 

Most people weren't home. She supposed they were either at the hospital, or had left as soon as they could. She trudged through the city, her bags getting lighter as she dropped off her wares hoping that her friends would stay out of the snow.

She had found Alix drunk and incoherent. After getting them into a hot bath, Marinette found twin butterflies twisted around their ankles. 

Max had been sitting on the edge of a building when she found him. His small black butterfly was tattooed onto his forehead, like a blaring sign that read  _I was an akuma_. 

Manon's family had taken the first flight out of France.

Ivan and Mylene had politely declined her gifts and company when she visited their family homes, stating that they needed to take care of their traumatized children. But when she asked, they showed her their scars. Ivan had one on either shoulder, and one on his back, both a mottled grey. Marinette sniffled when she saw Mylene's scar rest against her pregnant belly.

It was soft and pink, yet glared out anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

She made her way to the hospital now. There were two more people she wanted to see.

 

As she pushed through the overcrowded building, she found his room quite easily.

“He’s still in a coma.” 

The nurse by the bed commented as she stepped in. He was scribbling on a clipboard, and hardly looked up when he heard her footsteps fall besides him.

“Oh.”

Marinette came closer to brush the strands of red hair back.

“How long has it been?”

She wasn’t quite sure how many days it had been since the defeat. She had been working non-stop, visiting each of the victims that she knew personally. She couldn’t remember the time at all.

The nurse gave her an odd look. “Five days.”

“Oh.” Marinette repeated her simple response. “Does he have a scar?”

The nurse pointed to Nathanael’s hands, relaxed against the pristine white sheets of the hospital bed.

 

There, a number of mini white and purple butterflies swirled around his fingers.

 

The nurse put his clipboard down and began to adjust the drip that was attached to the red head. 

“Do you know what they mean? A couple other patients have similar ones.”

“Yes.” She didn’t elaborate, even when the nurse gave her a probing look.

Instead, she set down two of the five bags she had left. “These are for him. If he doesn't wake up soon enough for the pastries to stay okay, feel free to share them among the doctors and nurses. You all must be exhausted.”

The nurse smiled at her, and she knew her statement was true, for his eyes screamed for a break, for it all to stop. That’s when she saw the tip of a scarred wing peak out from behind his ear. “You seem like a good girl.”

“I tried to be.” She wrote her phone number down on the envelope she left for Nathanael. “If he wakes, give me a call. I’d like to talk to him again.”

She remembered the nurse now. He had been akumatised two and a half years ago. He’d been a rather gentle one, having been exploited by the akuma because of his anger at missing his daughter’s performance.

“I’m sorry.”

“I have a feeling you’ve said that a lot. It really isn’t your fault, miss.”

 

It was though.

  

* * *

 

 

She had delayed visiting him. She couldn't quite answer why. 

When she found the room the frazzled receptionist had directed her to, she stopped outside the door for a bit. He was awake, and reading a book. The bright white of the blizzard outside provided enough light that Marinette could see the shallow angles of his sunken cheekbones from her place in the door. His blond hair was mussed and sticking up at odd angles.

Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the frame of the door.

His head snapped up, and Marinette blinked at the green eyes of her partner. 

“Oh. Marinette, it’s been awhile.”

She smiled cautiously at him and slid inside the room. “Yes it has. I think the last time we saw each other was the reunion two years ago.”

“It must’ve been.”

She eyed him. He had a bandage across his chest, and another one on his right hand. “What happened to you?”

“The doctors said it was likely that I was hit by an akuma, since the worse that happened was that all my energy seemed to have been drained out of me. I also have a pretty bad scar across my chest and finger.”

He peeled off the bandage on his hand to show a lightning show of scars that surrounded his ring finger. “The one on my chest is slightly worse, and the doctors don’t think they’ll ever heal completely.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It had nothing to do with you.”

She sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’ve been visiting a lot of our old friends.”

“In this weather?” He glanced at the wind that whipped sheets of snow outside.

Marinette shrugged. “Many of them were taken over by akumas. It’s pretty bad for all of them. They needed the support." She took a deep breath. "I don’t think we can recover from this anytime soon.”  _We, as in Paris._   _We, as in Chat Noir and Ladybug_. 

“I wasn’t an akuma.” _So why are you visiting me?_ Was his unspoken question.

“I know.”

Adrien continued to stare at her as she twisted her fingers together. The strength of those green orbs were electrifying.

“I have a scar too.” Adrien blinked, taken aback by her non sequitur.

“Oh.”

“The ones from the akuma victims are all shaped like butterflies. They’re rather terrible.”

She continued. “Chloe told me that each scar represented a life they took while in their akumatised forms.”

His mouth formed a horrified ‘O’.

“I was never akumatised.” She turned to stare at those bright green orbs.

“I know.” Of course he did.

“But I still have a scar. Actually more than one.”

He reached out his undamaged hand and placed it atop of hers. “Were you hurt in the battle?”

She gave him a weak smile. “More mentally than physically I suppose.”

 

She tugged her knit cap off and brushed all her hair to the side.

 

For a second, he didn’t seem to know what she was pointing out. Then his eyes zeroed in on her ears.

Shaking fingers lifted up to trace the web of scarring that decorated her ear lobe. They were like cracks that emanated from her piercing. Angry red, bruising purple, glowing white, and dusty black created a canvas of colors. They wrapped around the lobe and up and around her ear like creeping ivy.

 

“Marinette?” His voice cracked.

 

She shushed him for a second, and then took off her winter jacket. Inside, she wore a soft blue cashmere sweater. She took this off too. Finally, clad in only a black tank top, Marinette pointed to her back and twisted around.

Adrien’s trembling hands lifted up her shirt carefully, and gasped at the sight on her back. A huge red circle, perfectly symmetric, was carved from scar tissue. It was the size of a plate, and a singular white line ran down it, from the base of her neck, the right above her tailbone. Five shriveled black dots spread across the middle.

 

A ladybug.

 

For Ladybug.

 

“I’m sorry my cure couldn’t help you, chaton. But it seems like there is a lot my cure couldn’t do.”

Adrien stared at her with wide eyes, letting the hem of the tank top drift back down.

“My–M’Lady?”

She smiled at him. It was Ladybug’s smile, tinted with Marinette’s sadness. Marinette’s sweetness tinted with Ladybug’s regrets. “It’s me kitty.”

Then suddenly, his arms were around her, and her nose was pressed against him, and hot liquid dribbled into her hair. She wrapped her own arms around his bandaged chest, and let her own tears fall onto the sheets.

 

A blizzard whirled outside, but Marinette finally allowed herself to feel exhaustion and collapsed onto her partner. She didn’t know what her future held. She didn’t know what to feel anymore. 

She just let herself be held by the man who had stood by her side for years. 

  

* * *

 

They didn’t say anything. They didn’t have to.

 

Their scars said it all.

 

Especially the ones that couldn’t be seen.

  

* * *

 

 

Cicatrix (n.) – a scar resulting from the contraction of fibrous tissue over a flesh wound, especially in regards to a previously attached part.

_Adapted definition from Merriam-Webster_

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I cried writing this.


End file.
